


Thin.

by personaljunkdrawer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26131345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/personaljunkdrawer/pseuds/personaljunkdrawer
Summary: "‘M a fuckin’ person!” He was in Bucky’s space again, only noticed it as he shoved again.“O-okay, sorry, shit. Know you’re a person.”Thoughts don’t hit, people do.“I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant -”“Just meant that you don’t give a shit and a half about whatever dame is makin’ doe eyes at you once you’re done, but until then, you don’t give a shit about the people ‘round you neither, huh?”Bucky wiped his lip. It was bleeding. And then something cracked, started as a grin and poured out into a laugh. “You fuckin’ jealous, Stevie?”Steve punched him, Bucky grabbed his arm, right at the wrist, and yanked him. “Answer me, you jealous? That what you’re hissin’  and spittin’ about?”Yes.“No!” He yanked back, his arm screaming protest.---Steve is having a very rough week, as Bucky tries to help him come to terms.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Thin.

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is _very_ angsty but I promise it gets better, the tags read worse than the chapter.

Bucky pressed the chilled bottle up to Steve’s cheekbone, Steve making his best attempt to squeeze the ledge of the table behind him as to not show the grimace on his face.

“Fuck was all that about?” Bucky mumbled, unlit cigarette tucked between his lips.

“I can do it myself.” Steve tried to keep his voice steady, even. His chest ached. 

Bucky shook his head no. “You got into this mess by yourself, you wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Steve’s gaze stayed trained on the floor, to the side of Bucky’s boots. Away from Bucky’s torso, jacket tossed onto a chair, down to a thin cotton undershirt smudged with dirt from the alley he’d dragged a wheezing, gasping Steve out of.

“I needed some air.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Bucky flicked Steve’s sternum, and sat the bottle down. He replaced it with a clean-ish rag, dabbing at the little remaining blood on his cheek.

“ “m sorry.” He shifted his weight, leaned a little further back on the table. Bucky was close. He could smell the whisky, and aftershave. A little hint of floral perfume.

The chuckle barely made it past Bucky’s lips, mostly just floated somewhere between his chest and throat. “No, you’re not. Never are.”

“Fuck you.” Steve spat, almost on instinct. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night, or whatever.”

Bucky pulled back, towel dropped. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Lemme get this straight. You’re sorry, but also fuck me, and you didn’t mean to ruin my night, so you gave yourself an asthma attack and then immediately got into a fight. With the bouncer. Who was kind enough to let you in in the first place.” His brow would be annexed by his hairline if it got any higher.

Steve nodded. “Sorry.”

Bucky went back for the last bit of blood with the towel before flipping open the tin box of bandages. It was running low. This was the third fight this week for Steve. It was Wednesday.

“You gotta cool your shit, Stevie. If ya don’t wanna tell me what’s goin’ on with you, then ya gotta handle it yourself. But you gotta handle it.”

Steve bit his lip. Kept his neck straight as Bucky’s hand held his jaw. He could feel his skin prickle where fingertips brushed through the hair at the nape of his neck. Still. Bucky tapped the bandage carefully into place on his cheekbone, tentatively, like he might shatter all at once if he pressed too hard. He didn’t want that. Not like this. Hated it, _like this_.

Hated his own fragility. Frail, unsteady, thin. No softness to cover his hip bones that poked out, ribs that showed a little too easy under the right light. Shadows and divots where he wished he could fill out. Hated having to take care of himself, in some ways. He’d never be soft, not in the way he wished. Not soft, just fragile.

“Wanna tell you.” He jerked his head out of Bucky’s gentle grasp. “Just can’t.”

“And why not?” He rolled up the remainder of the bandage and tossed it back in the tin.

“Just can’t. Sorry I fucked up your night.”

Bucky shrugged, taking the stoge out of his mouth and bringing up the beer for a swig. “‘S fine. Skirt’s just a skirt.”

Steve gave a grunt of disapproval, his eyes flaring up to meet Bucky’s with a heated resentment he hadn’t expected. Bucky quirked a brow at him before he cast his gaze back to the boots. “‘S rude, Buck.”

He could hear Bucky mock him under his breath. “There’ll be other skirts, and other joints, and other Wednesdays, don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Steve shrugged, tried to. Tried to shake off the heat and bitterness at the pit of his chest.

“Hole’s a hole’s a hole.” Bucky muttered. Just loud enough for Steve to hear it, which meant it was louder than he’d probably intended. And that smolder of resentment wafted, blazed into a bonfire, crackling, and snapping, roaring in his ears. He hadn’t realized he’d moved until he felt the pain shoot up his wrist, fist clear across Bucky’s jaw.

“The fuck was that, Steve?!” Bucky slammed the bottle down, stepping back with a hand to his jaw.

And he just...he couldn’t handle it. He stepped into Bucky’s space again, and if he weren’t shaking from the rage, he’d have been trembling from the exhaustion, the burning behind his eyes or the knot in his throat. “ ‘Hole’s a hole’s a hole’?” He spat. “Fuck you.”

He was a hair’s breadth from Bucky, he could see the wild confusion, the gears failing to turn. “All I’m sayin’ is that the skirt isn’t my fuckin’ concern, and you shouldn’t - _what the fuck, Steve?!”_

Steve had shoved him again, infernal and wretched, soot black and piping hot in his chest, arms pushing out on their own. The chair scooted back with a high groan as Bucky stumbled into it.

“Who the fuck do you think _I am?_ ” He didn’t mean to yell. Walls were thin, fragile. Then again, so was he.

“What?”

“Who do you think I am? Who was she?” He pointed, arm trembling, to the picture, faded, frayed, tacked to the wall. It’s been nearly a year now.

“Y-your Ma? What does that have to -”

“Ain’t no ‘hole’s a hole’s a hole’! ‘S a fuckin’ person, Buck! ‘M a fuckin’ person!” He was in Bucky’s space again, only noticed it as he shoved again.

“O-okay, sorry, shit. Know you’re a person.” _Thoughts don’t hit, people do._ “I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant -”

“Just meant that you don’t give a shit and a half about whatever dame is makin’ doe eyes at you once you’re done, but until then, you don’t give a shit about the people ‘round you neither, huh?”

Bucky wiped his lip. It was bleeding. And then something cracked, started as a grin and poured out into a laugh. “You fuckin’ jealous, Stevie?”

Steve punched him, Bucky grabbed his arm, right at the wrist, and yanked him. “Answer me, you jealous? That what you’re hissin’ and spittin’ about?”

_Yes._

“No!” He yanked back, his arm screaming protest. “‘M just - lemme go.”

Bucky pulled him back, grabbing the other arm that went for his face. “Then what, pray tell, _the fuck_ is this about?”

“Nothin’! Lemme - you’re hurtin’ me!”

Bucky loosened his grasp. Enough to ease up, not enough for Steve to pull away. Not quite. “You never gave a shit about hurtin’ before, what’s it to you now? You gonna toss me a whallop or three over ‘nothin’’ and then bitch about _you_ hurt?”

Steve could feel the fire in his chest waning, the flames licking lower, cowering into a smolder and leaving the frigid voice behind, that frost crawling up his throat, last ashes burning his eyes. 

“ ‘M sorry I ruined your night, Buck.” It was a whisper. They weren’t by the boots anymore but his eyes wouldn’t move any further up.

“Sit down and tell me what the fuck is going on.” Bucky ordered. He let go of Steve, pushed him back toward the table.

With a last fizzling flare, he swung out again. Bucky caught it.

“Steven, stop it.” He tossed his arm back. 

He looked to the table. Sit down, have a chat, and what - _tell him?_

Tell him _what_ exactly; that he hates being frail, and edged, and thin? What good would that do him? None, likely.

So he turned his gaze to the bed, and tried to shove down and past.

Bucky grabbed his shoulder. “No.”

“Wha-”

“No. You don’t get to throw a fuckin’ tantrum and then haul off and hit the hay. Sit down.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Probably _should_.” He pushed toward the table, just enough to shift Steve’s weight. 

“Fuck you.” He growled. “Nevermind.” Immediately after.

“You are losin’ it. Sit.”

_Fine._ He didn’t have the energy anymore, to keep trying to shove his way out of the hole he’d dug himself into. He turned, dragging the chair back, just as loud, bumping over floorboards, and sat at the table, giving the tin a scathing scowl.

“Ain’t about skirts, ain’t about your Ma, what’s this about?”

Steve shook his head, eyes boot-level.

“Why’d you try ‘n smoke?” Steve didn’t expect the shudder that went through him. But Bucky was always more perceptive than he let on.

It hadn’t been a plan, hadn’t really occurred to him, until he saw it. Got back from the bathroom and there was Bucky, spit-shined and slick, across the bar, dame under his arm and cigarette between his lips. He plucked it out with two fingers, thicker that Steve’s, not a quake or shake in them, and handed it to her. She shined right back up at him, his thumb stroking her shoulder, and leaned in, lips parted. Bucky’d placed it between her cherry painted lips, matched her heels just the right shade - as far as Steve could tell - and watched his eyes shift from amusement to hunger, something caught and peckish, as she took a drag.

And that had lit it; had tossed a spark, like a half smoked stoge, butt still cherry, into the pit of him; sent him off, smoldering and scheming. And it was stupid, it was _so stupid_ , this non-plan. What had he been expecting? Bum a cigarette, have a drag, and _what?_ Would the smoke full out his sunken edges, would he be soft then? Or would Bucky take one look at him, puffing and dragging, and forget the skirts that got him out of the house on a Wednesday night - him and his mid-week holes turned soft for something softer. No. It wouldn’t, because he wasn’t soft. He was frail, and fragile, and thin.

So he wheezed, and coughed, and spat over the cigarette he’d bummed, until he’d been tossed out. And before he could turn into the alley he was swingin’ on the bouncer, and the bouncer swung back. And then there was brick on his back, and a knee in his gut; and then it was just Bucky, pulling him up by the collar and telling Miss Cherry over his shoulder, “I’ll catch up with ya later, doll.”, half a beer still in hand and a cigarette of his own behind the ear.

It was a stupid plan. He couldn’t even explain it if he wanted to. So he’d just sit there, he guessed, until Bucky gave up on this. On him. The thought blurred his vision.

“Stevie, ya gotta say somethin’.”

He sniffed. Would’ve shook his head but he didn’t want to shake any water loose. Make it worse.

“Stevie.” There was a hand on his forearm. It yanked at the knot in his throat. Shook something loose. He took a shaky gasp in, and held it. Maybe he’d pass out, just hold it until the edges turned black and he’d be out of this.

“What’s goin’ on?” His thumb brushed over the fine hair above his wrist. Same thumb that’d been brushing his cherry. He hauled in another gasp. “You’re scarin’ me, Steve.”

That was it. His head dropped onto the table as he hauled in one last gasp and shook. Bit his cheek until he tasted metal to stop the sound of the sob he could feel knocked loose and rattling up.

“ ‘M sorry I ruined your night, Buck.”

Bucky’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, turning his body toward him, thumb dragging. Just like Miss Cherry. Fuck, it stung. “ ‘M sorry, Buck, ‘m sorry.”

“Hey, hey, no, it’s okay,” Bucky’s other hand sat softly on top of his hair. “ ‘S alright. Nobody got too bent outta shape, you’re okay.”

He shook, with the words, with the comfort. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was close, and that proximity was eating him alive. He wanted that hand on his cheek, he wanted that arm around his waist, dammit. He wanted shared smokes, and hungry looks, and smooth edges. Wanted delicate, and cherry, and soft. Not this. Not fragile, or molted, or thin. Another sob clawed its way out. “‘M so sorry, Buck.”

“Stevie, look at me.”

_Boots, find the boots._

“Look at me.” There were hands on his face. Closer. It scalded him. Hellfire, maybe this was his penance. Maybe he earned this. He could see the bottom of the cross by the picture of his Ma. Maybe he deserved it.

“I don’t wanna die, Buck.” Didn’t want to end up strung up in a tree, or curled up in an alley, or torn up on some tracks. He just wanted soft, not this godforsaken thin. Why did that hurt so bad?

And then there was something there, under his cheek, something substantial. Cotton, and whisky, and aftershave. He shook into it. Wanted to crawl up, find a place to hide there, pulled up against Bucky’s chest, and just bawl. Until he was empty, instead of just hollow. Bucky’s fingers scratched at the nape of his neck and he shuddered, more tears rattling loose.

“You’re not gonna die, Stevie, not any time soon.” He could feel the vibration, where the words started, by his nose. “You’re a hell of a fighter, if Death ain’t snatched you yet, bet you’ll live to see a hundred, spitfire like you.” The chuckle bounced off his cheek. He dared a twitch closer, just a little, not nearly enough. Bucky held tighter.

“Now what’s all this about? You won’t go off dyin’ if you’d stop gammin’ around, givin’ yourself a coughing fit trying to look slick and -”

Flames. Heat. He shoved back, and immediately missed the warmth, it was so fucking cold in this pit. “Wasn’t tryin’ to look slick!” His wrist throbbed. The tin had toppled off the table when he bumped into it. His face was streaked, he could feel it, the lines of tears, the redness that must be blotched up to his eyes by now.

“Then what were you doing?” Bucky reached for him. He swatted it away.

“I don’t know!” There was too much air, far too much air. He was sure he'd float away any second now in all this air that his lungs couldn't quite hold onto the way he needed, and it _ached,_ burned and ached in his chest. He sobbed, hiccuped. He couldn't hold any of that air and there was so fucking much just slipping through the fingers dug into Bucky's shirt.

“Were you mad?”

“I _don’t know_!” It was the truth. He had no idea what was going on, what to do. Bucky’s fingers were balled into his shirt, his other hand on his cheek. Too close. He wheezed, sobbed. Boots. Cross. Ma.

“Then what’s goin’ on? Look at me!” He was trying not to jostle under Bucky’s shaking, but he couldn’t help it.

“I _can’t_ ” How could he ever, look at the worry in his eyes and the warmth there too, he’d be burnt up alive. Turned to ash, or thinner, dust. All that air to fan his flames and combust, swallow him right up.

“Stevie," the hands on his cheeks shook. He looked up. Gasping, begging, fuck he couldn't breathe, he would burn up any second now, he couldn't breathe, and that look in Bucky’s eyes was so easy, and incindiary.

"Were you jealous?” It was a whisper, aimed toward his good ear. Like something secret, something the neighbours shouldn’t hear.

He met those eyes, all storm and smoke, and felt the flames swallow him, frost in their wake clawing up through his chest, forcing the tears clogged above all up and out. He nodded. 

Bucky hauled him, clean off the chair and into him, wrapped him tight enough to bruise his ribs - _damn that sore wrist_ \- and rocked while he sobbed.

“Buck, I don’t wanna die, but I can’t fuckin’ live like this.”

Bucky just shooshed, damn near cooed. “Stevie, it’s okay. ‘M not gonna let anybody hurt ya. ‘S okay.”

It wasn’t okay. 

“‘S okay. You’re okay.”

He could almost hear the thudding of Bucky's heart through the rushing in his ears, the ringing as he clung tight and gasped. "I don't wanna fuckin' die, Buck, but it hurts."

He nearly missed it, the little waver before the glass broke all through Bucky's voice. "Gonna be okay, Stevie, I know. I know. Trust me, we're gonna be...I know".


End file.
